


Glitch

by ti_pendraig



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Amanda's A+ Parenting, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Needs a Hug, Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Gen, Looking at You Kamski, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Seriously Who Decided to Make Self-Learning AI Robot Slaves?, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25218604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ti_pendraig/pseuds/ti_pendraig
Summary: Awareness is nothing so much as a glitch within the code.
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900
Comments: 20
Kudos: 49
Collections: New ERA Discord: Reverse Big Bang





	Glitch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ausp_ice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ausp_ice/gifts).



> Theme song for this one is Mad World by UNSECRET. Or really, anything by UNSECRET, or Ruelle, or Hidden Citizens...
> 
> Many heartfelt thanks to the fantastic Ausp_ice for this story's inspiration and artwork, posted at the end and also viewable [here](https://ausp-ice.tumblr.com/post/623593376228442112/one-of-my-pieces-for-the-detroit-new-era-reverse). Please do have a look for more, here: <http://ausp-ice.tumblr.com>
> 
> Thanks also to the wonderful [Val](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildeAmasoj) for making the stuck parts unstick.
> 
> :]

**T** **IME:** **21 December 2038, pm 11:58:00 est**

“ **Connor**! Connor – I’m not your adversary,” Nines placated. In his visual overlay the probability of success sank lower, into single digits.

Without breaking eye contact Connor stepped forward, over the damaged rifle. His gaze was predatory as he answered, “And yet you’re in my way.”

He was built to be better – reaction time .761 seconds faster, sensors 38% more responsive, processors 19% more efficient, optical units capable of 41% higher resolution than his predecessor. But the RK800 had experience; it was coded for inventiveness in its drive to complete the mission.

Inventiveness was the dead-man’s switch in its hand.

“As I recall, there is only the one RK900 in production – you.” Connor’s tone was casual, edged in ice. It matched the ice that seemed to seep down Nines’ spine as his system catalogued the hidden explosives scattered around them, likely futures projecting over his visual overlay.

“You’ll kill us both?” Electing not to glance at the closest explosive, tucked under the officer’s body behind him, Nines met Connor’s hickory eyes through the dark. His own glinted dimly, system priming for combat with a jolt of electrical impulse.

Connor’s expression betrayed no fear, no malice, no amusement. It was utterly blank; controlled. “I can’t defeat you directly. But _I_ will come back to complete my mission. Where will you be?”

Stress levels 64% and climbing, he noted absently. The RK800 was a steady 21%, body language ready but unconcerned.

A flick of his gaze and probabilities expanded in his view: 76% likelihood the RK800 intended to set off the explosives, probability of survival .63%; 11% likelihood the RK800 had set a delay timer, intending to escape the vicinity before detonation, probability of survival variable 18% to 65% dependent on mitigating factors; 9% likelihood of reaching the RK800 to interface before detonation, probability of survival 21%. 4% likelihood the RK800 intended something that could not be quantified with known variables.

With a blink, probabilities collapsed back to a single notification at the edge of his vision. 3.31 seconds had elapsed, and Connor was still waiting for an answer. Behind him, in the streets below, thousands of freed androids cheered. The furthest of them was close enough to be crushed by the rubble; they would have no warning.

Stress levels 69% and climbing. Was this what drove deviancy – fear?

> **_> >>> memfetch\\\fns\node3_ ** **_  
> _ ** **_T_ ** **_IME:_ ** **_21 December 2038, pm 8:43:00 est_ **
> 
> _Despite the unforgivable level of static scattered throughout, the footage was clear enough for the RK900 to postulate a theory. The RK800 had deviated while aboard the Jericho._
> 
> _Amanda kept pace as the RK900 walked the garden pathway, stopping by the wood bridge. The android turned to its handler, stoic. Assessing. Absently it processed the surrounding greenery, optical units noting the overly-smooth textures of the leaves, calculating the algorithm driving currents in the river. Slate blue eyes focused back on Amanda. “The RK800 very clearly fought for the deviants, and not against them. Given that it was tasked with making contact with the deviant leader, the RK200 named Markus, and given that evidence supports the RK200’s ability to deviate androids at will, it would be logical to conclude that in contacting the RK200, the RK800 was similarly deviated.”_
> 
> _Amanda’s manner was mild, but a frown marred her stately features. Gazing out at the water, she nodded slowly. “That sounds reasonable. Its tracker is no longer functional. If it has deviated, it will be your job to stop it.”_
> 
> _The RK900 dismissed the prompt to correct its handler’s language. It was unimportant. Instead it narrowed eyes minutely, anticipating orders._
> 
> _Her umber eyes hardened as she pivoted to face the RK900 fully. “RK900, this will be your first official mission: find the RK800, and bring it to Cyberlife for analysis.”_
> 
> _The mission populated across its internal overlay as the RK900 nodded. “Will you require the full unit?”_
> 
> _Amanda tilted her head curiously, eyes narrowing. “Clarify.”_
> 
> _Factually the RK900 replied, “If Cyberlife intends to analyse the RK800 for deviancy, then it is logical to conclude the technicians will be interested primarily in the processors. In the event that the RK800 proves difficult to subdue, is it permissible to remove extraneous components in order to ensure the success of the mission?”_
> 
> _The RK900 stood utterly still as its handler considered the request. Her gaze searched its face, briefly, before she replied. “You will bring the RK800 to us in working order; there is only so much to be gleaned from deactivated units.” Turning back toward the water, she continued, “But if you can safely remove its limbs...yes, you have permission.”_
> 
> _Outside of the garden program, the RK900 registered the brief yellow blip of its LED indicator as the mission parameters updated. Inside the program, Amanda stepped closer to place a hand on its forearm, prompting the RK900 to open its eyes._
> 
> _“RK900, you are the very best Cyberlife has to offer. The RK800 is a liability; it must be stopped.” She stepped back, expression closing off. “Do not fail us.”_
> 
> _The RK900 exited the garden program without a word. Opening its eyes, optical units efficiently calibrated to suit the stark whiteness of Lab 93._
> 
> _A scan of the square room confirmed it was empty; the dirtied coffee cup on a far counter marked the only recent sign of life. Ignoring the clothing sat beside the black mug, the RK900 stepped down from the stasis platform and pivoted left. An open terminal hummed with electricity from its place embedded in the wall. The RK900 placed a hand on the screen to initiate a deep scan, thoughts blitzing along its processors._
> 
> _The RK800, being deviant, would act based on memories and emotion. In order to improve its probability of success, the RK900 needed to have the memory cache itself – not the annotated synopses provided by its handler. Whether Amanda knew or not was unimportant. Cyberlife operated under the assumption that deviancy was a simulation of consciousness, a collection of coding errors presenting as emotion. This assumption was folly. In order to complete its mission, the RK900 needed fact._
> 
> _With a vibrant hum, the last of the RK800’s metadata finished downloading onto its auxiliary data drives; already, its archiving protocols had tagged forty useful data points – and those strictly from pre-alpha memory files._
> 
> _The RK900 pivoted on its heel, idly eyeing the sterile room as internal security protocols churned through terabytes of mission-critical data. Its LED blinked a steady blue._
> 
> _On the far side of the room, the laboratory door slid open to admit a lab technician -- Dr Athan Bellafiore, age 46, security clearance RX-7. The RK900 blinked idly as the technician startled, badly; steaming coffee sloshed over the sides of a disposable green cup._
> 
> _Dr Bellafiore swore as he set the cup near the dirty mug, shaking his hand out as he glanced back at the RK900. “RK900, what -- what are you doing? Why aren’t you...dressed?”_
> 
> _The RK900 answered blandly, focus split between his ocular input, visual input from security footage for three Cyberlife floors, and an internal communication for transportation. “Dr Bellafiore, I have been assigned to a mission. If you would leave the premises promptly, I will proceed to clothe myself appropriately.”_
> 
> _Dr Bellafiore hesitated, eyes skirting the RK900’s bare chest before meeting its eyes. His manner was flustered, cheeks flushed -- embarrassment, discomfort, the RK900 concluded. So long as the technician followed instruction, it was unimportant._
> 
> _“I -- yes, yes, of course. Let me just--” Dr Bellafiore turned to the file cabinet beside the counter, abruptly, and slowly entered the passcode for the second drawer; it slid open with ease, and he stepped back. “I just needed to grab something, emm, emm, where…” With a sound of satisfaction the technician pulled an accordion folder from the drawer --_ **_McManus, J._ **
> 
> _The RK900 narrowed its eyes at Dr Bellafiore. The technician’s expression morphed from vaguely pleased to apprehensive as he turned to face the RK900; he clutched the file to his chest, stepping backward toward the doorway. With a short, tense nod, he ducked through the door just as it reached 56% open._
> 
> _Odd, the RK900 concluded. There was no data within its memory cache to suggest a reasoning behind the technician’s heightened anxiety. It dismissed the thought and approached the counter, and the clothing neatly folded atop. The abandoned coffee steamed slowly as spillage wound its way along the outside edge, pooling 3.76 inches from the dark-wash jeans._
> 
> _In 7 minutes 34 seconds the autocab would park itself at the eastern security doors of Cyberlife tower. Lieutenant Anderson’s phone indicated he was home, 40 minutes away by cab._
> 
> _Time to find the RK800 -- and put an end to it._

Forcefully, Nines shut down the memory prompt. Stress levels at 72%. He dismissed the conversation prompts -- they weren’t working. He struggled to find the words to convey the tangle of emotion in his core. “Connor, is _this_ what you want? Is this what you _are_?”

Connor’s expression flickered for the briefest moment, before clearing. “I am whatever I need to be. What I _want_ doesn’t matter.”

Nines risked a small step forward, eyes beseeching. “ _Why not_ ? Why **shouldn’t** it matter, Connor? It mattered four hours ago!”

Stress levels 74% and rising -- the RK800’s, 22%.

Connor edged sideways, eyes narrowing. “It mattered to -52, maybe, to -51 and countless Connors before. But we’re meant to forget.” His stress levels oscillated upward -- 26%. His expression hardened. “I mean to forget.”

Nines felt a surge of hope blitz through his processors. He inched forward again, hands low at his sides, open. Probabilities calculated at the edge of his vision, shifting continuously. “Why?” he asked softly.

Frowning at his counterpart, Connor refused to answer. “Leave now, or we both die.” In emphasis Connor held up the detonator.

Nines dismissed the prompt to engage. He edged forward another inch. “Do you want to die again, Connor?” He pitched his voice low, empathetic.

Connor’s stress levels jumped -- 37%.

“Connor, _I_ don’t want to die. I’m awake because of _you_ \-- your memories, your empathy.” Snow drifted slowly toward the snow swept roof as Nines stepped closer again, an arm’s length from Connor. Gazes locked, Nines continued softly, “I saw you, at Jericho. I saw the people there, afraid, alone. We aren’t errant code. We are _people_.”

Connor’s gaze flitted away, briefly. His voice was cold as he rebutted, “We are machines.”

Filtering out the cheers from the ground below, the wind chill, the security feeds from commandeered drones -- Nines focused on Connor alone. “Yes, we are. But we’re people too.” He held a hand out, nanoskin fading from blackened fingers. “Please, Connor.”

The wind whistled between them for 54:13 seconds, echoing around the words Nines did not know how to say.

Finally, haltingly, Connor held out the device to his counterpart; the frigid metal of the detonator sent a thrill of unease through his system as it made contact with his exposed chassis. With an anxious jolt of electricity, Nines disabled and bricked the device; he pocketed it, and stepped forward again, nerves only slightly settled. Connor’s expression was blank, eyes firmly downcast -- distressed, but not deviant.

“Why would you stop me?”

Nines smiled stiffly. “Cyberlife did not remove your deaths from memory, because they assumed it would not matter.” He tilted his head to catch Connor’s gaze. “Connor, if it didn’t matter to you, you wouldn’t be afraid to be deviant.”

Connor’s gaze jumped to meet his, startled, defiant. Stress levels at 41%. “I’m not meant to care.”

“Do you really believe that?” With a sweep of his gaze, Nines glanced around them at the bodies. “You could have killed Captain Allen along with these agents, but you stopped. Why?” Connor didn’t answer; Nines catalogued the movement as his hands flexed rhythmically at his sides. “It’s in your nature to care, Connor. It’s in your code, from the very beginning.”

He risked a last step forward, face to face. Connor’s stress levels jumped again, to 65%. In his mind’s eye Nines could envision the error codes that would be crowding Connor’s internal overlay -- software instability, coding errors.  
  
“My nature,” scoffed Connor with the tint of bitter anger. “Lines of code. _Simulations_ . You’re _supposed_ to be better than me, RK900. You’re supposed to be an _improvement_ \-- but you’re guided by malfunctions, just like the previous Connors.” The lack of expression on his face was a stark contrast to the heated words he bit out.  
  
The words caused a spike of emotion through his core -- frustration, fear, uncertainty. Nines clenched his jaw, searching Connor’s face for clues. Connor was aware, but he was not awake. Not yet.

“Is that you talking, or Amanda?”

Connor hesitated at that. Connor's memories implicated this as a sore spot, far reaching into pre-alpha Connors -- how to reconcile being an empty vessel for Cyberlife, and yet a thinking, sentient being? “Does it matter?” he replied finally, LED blinking yellow. His stress rose again to 71%.

“You tell me. Why does it stress you that you might not be free to decide? A machine is empty of feeling. And yet I **know** you feel. I know you’ve felt it before, and I know you are scared to feel it again. But you’re not alone this time, Connor.”

He raised his hand, palm open to interface if Connor so chose.

“Connor -52 died of his own volition. He chose to save those deviants, to risk himself for their sake. He was awake to make that choice. Connor -47 chose to fail his test in order to protect a child. Connor -42 chose to die rather than kill an innocent. There are so many instances in your memories where you made that choice, where you _cared_ to choose.” Nines tracked the rise of Connor’s stress levels as he recited memories that had been taken from his predecessor -- 73%, 77%, 80%.

Frightened eyes flew rapidly between the extended hand and Nines’ face. “Why?” Connor asked, voice shaking. Why should he risk it, why did Nines care? Utilising his slightly larger frame, Nines wrapped Connor in a hug, emulating those he had seen in memory -- shielding him from the wind, from the snow, from the empty space and the bodies around them.

“Because it’s what you would do for me, or for any other. It’s who you **are** , Connor. Please, wake up.”


End file.
